


From the Ashes

by always_a_queen



Series: Crossed [1]
Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/pseuds/always_a_queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's a trained Gogol operative.  She'll be trying to use you just as much as you'll be trying to use her.  Whatever you do, don't forget that." // Or: Nikita works for Gogol. Michael works for Division. It's possible they were doomed from the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming the inspiration for this fic on the "You are an excellent honeytrap" line from Season One.

_From the Ashes  
_

_(Crossed: Part One)_

* * *

 

 “Her name is Nikita Mears.  She’s been working for Gogol for the past two years.  Currently, she’s living in the states.”

Michael studies the photograph Birkhoff flashes across the screen with the tap of a key.  She’s stunning, that’s for sure.  Sensuous is the word Michael thinks he would use, and all he’s seen so far is her passport photo.  It takes a gorgeous woman to look alluring even on one of those.

“We’re calling it Operation Songbird.  Standard Raven Protocol,” Percy says from behind him.  Michael’s blood runs cold.  He’s just come back from a similar assignment, the seduction of one Cassandra Ovechkin, and he’s not quite ready to jump into another romantic entanglement just yet.  He’s seconds away from saying so when Percy throws in an additional incentive.

“Gogol’s been helping Kasim smuggle his drugs through Russia."

That's all Michael needs.  If he had to pull out his toenails one by one to get at Kasim, he would do it in a heartbeat.  Seducing an attractive woman is relatively less painful.

“So why her?”  Michael motions to the picture on the screen.  _God_ , she's lovely.

Birkhoff answers, “Among other things, she’s Ari Tasarov’s mistress.  We have reason to believe that their pillow talk is _detailed_.”

“Then why is she in the states?”

Percy says, “They need an asset on our soil, and Ari wants a comfortable distance between them.”

"What he _wants_ ," Birkhoff says, "is to keep his wife and his mistress on different _continents_.  Not a bad strategy."

"We want you to sway her onto our side.  Find out what you can about Kasim, but he is not the primary target on this mission."

"Understood," Michael says.

"And don't forget, Michael," Percy tells him before he can leave, "She's a trained Gogol operative.  She'll be trying to use you just as much as you'll be trying to use her.  Whatever you do, _don't forget that._ "

Michael gives Percy a sharp nod. 

"I won't."

* * *

Nikita is bored.

Ari left her at the bar over twenty minutes ago so he could go take care of the real reason they’re at this high-class event: trading a case of biological weapons for a case of money. 

She's sipping from her flute of champagne when she sees _him_ enter the room.

There’s nothing particularly special about him.  He’s an average handsome, she supposes, and he wears his tux nicely.  With his longer brown hair and the soft scruff along his jaw, he just doesn’t quite look like he _belongs_ at this party.  Even the way he adjusts his tie and shrugs his shoulders make him look uncomfortable. 

She glances at her watch again.  Ari should be in the middle of his negotiations now.  Nikita's task is simply to keep an eye on things at the party, step in if something goes wrong, and play the part of Ari's arm candy when he returns to her side.

She looks back at the stranger.  There's nothing in her mandate that says she can't admire the other party guests.  For a moment, she scrutinizes him, and adjusts her previous conclusion as to his attractiveness.  He's _attractive_.  There's something unguarded and vulnerable about him, something good and wholesome.  If he's military, or former military - and his stance tells her that he either is or was, because Nikita's never _wrong_ about stuff like that - she's guessing he fought for the good ol' stars-and-stripes.  Freedom, justice, and the American way - which hey, she herself might have done the same if a different offer hadn't come along.

She observes the way he surveys the room, the way he notes security and exits.  Okay, _definitely_ former military, and probably _currently_ CIA.  This could be fun.

Suddenly, he catches her staring at him, and their eyes meet.

The way his eyes flick over her body quickly tells her that he's interested.

Good.  She can work with interested.  He'll be putty in her hands in _seconds_.

Ari's busy, and she's bored.

When the stranger walks over to the bar, she slides up next to him and places a quick order with the bartender.

Then she turns her attention to her mark. "Hello, gorgeous."

Nikita does not consider herself a seductress, but she's certainly accustomed to men's reactions to her when she's in a evening gown, and his response doesn't disappoint. She offers him her hand and a charming smile.  "My name is Nikita."

He's clearly surprised by her attention, but he gives her an uncomfortable smile anyway.  "I'm Michael."

The way she bites her lip is purposeful, the flutter of her eyelashes even more so.  "You look very...out of place here."

"It's not exactly my scene."

"I understand completely.  I have to be here.  Work, you know."

"What do you do?"

Casually, she laughs, "Oh, you'd find it _boring_ , I'm sure.  How about you?"

He looks flustered for a second, then says, "I'm in sales."

"I see.  So it's classified, is it?"

His jaw drops, and Nikita feels a rush of elation.  Yes, he most certainly was former military, but now he's definitely in some other government position. 

Casually, Nikita reaches over to caresses his wrist with her fingers. As she does, she takes his pulse. Without question, he's attracted to her.  His heart is racing, and a quick glance confirms that his pupils are dilated.

She hopes that Ari's business is going smoothly so she can figure out a way to connive soldier boy here to following her up to her hotel suite.  It's not that she wouldn't normally end up enjoying Ari's company, but he's been so busy working on this trip that he won't mind if she relieves her frustrations with the cute army guy - just so long as she's around when he wants her.

Nikita doesn't love Ari.  Both of them pretend to be okay with that part of their arrangement. 

Pushing Ari from her mind, she puts a finger to her lips.  "I won't tell.  I'm _very_ good at keeping secrets."

Nikita has learned how to play people.  It's all about understanding body language: slipping that sultry purr into her voice, adding a flutter to her eyelashes, touching a man's shoulder or neck casually. Pretty soon they all become putty in her hands, pliant and malleable.

She seduces Michael like a pro.  It's almost _too_ easy, except she can so plainly see that he's _way_ out of his depth, and for some reason that makes him even more attractive, more corruptible. 

Getting up to his room is _ridiculously_ simple.  As soon as Ari has confirmed - via the communications unit nestled snugly in her ear - that he has the package and the trade went smoothly, Nikita proposes spending a little time getting to know each other.  He suggests his own hotel room with an awkward cough and a charming grin.

She kisses him in the elevator.  It takes him a second to respond, and it's a little sloppy, but it aches of a realness that she hasn't experienced in a long, long time. 

She shudders when his tongue slides against hers and practically moans when his fingers teasingly trace the neckline of her dress, slipping beneath the fabric and carefully pushing the sleeves down her shoulders.

For a fleeting moment, she almost wants to reach over and pull the emergency stop button and take care of business in the elevator, but before she can take actions into her own hands, a pleasant ding alerts them both to the fact that they're on his floor.

Nikita grabs his tie and drags him out of the elevator. They make it about ten feet down the hallway before Michael sheepishly points out that his room is in the opposite direction.

 

* * *

 

Michael doesn't mean to hesitate when Nikita first kisses him. It has less to do with his own surprise and more to do with _how_ she just slides up against him, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

How do you seduce a woman like Nikita Mears? Master assassin and mistress to one of the most powerful men in Russia. He's been pondering it since he got the assignment, and hasn't found a clear answer.

It comes to him once they make it to his room and she pauses to step out of her heels. He blinks in surprise when she suddenly takes charge, pressing her palm against his chest and using the slightest amount of pressure to sent him careening backwards onto the bed. Whatever her arrangement with Ari, it doesn't involve her being in charge, and she needs that. She wants to be in control.

He can work with that.

Shrugging the straps of her dress off of her shoulders, Nikita shimmies out of the garment with a sensuous wiggle of her hips. Her undergarments are lace, skimpy and sumptuous. Michael lets his jaw drop slightly, lets his eyes roam her body, lets them linger on the phoenix tattoo on her hip.

A phoenix - the bird that rises from the ashes. Rebirth. Is that what Ari gave her? A new life?

He presses his fingers against it lightly.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and no matter how good an agent she is, the flicker of surprise that lights up her eyes is genuine. Honesty then. He can do honest.

Using his tie to pull him in for a kiss, her fingers quickly work on the buttons of his dress shirt. When she climbs onto his lap, he feels a pang of guilt knife into his chest.

This is supposed to be an assignment; he's not supposed to be getting so much... _enjoyment_ out of it. It feels perverted somehow. He's using her; she's using him. He knows this. Somehow, it still doesn't seem _right_.

"What's wrong?"

Damn it.

Gogol operative. Fantastic at reading people. Right.

He gives her a lopsided grin. One he would have given to Elizabeth when he was trying to get out of trouble. "Nothing."

Catching one of her hands in his, he lifts it to his mouth and presses her fingers to his lips. His other hand goes to her waist. His aim is to distract her, but it doesn't quite work. Nikita's eyes drop to his lips, but she still asks, "Who was she?"

 _Damn_ it. "Who was who?"

"The woman before me, who was she?"

He lets out a sigh, wondering how to play this. With her free hand, she fiddles with his belt buckle, and he knows that it's a ploy to get him to let his guard down.

"Her name was Cassie; she was married." It's a small lie and a small truth all at once. Even as he says _Cassie,_ he thinks _Elizabeth_.

Nikita smiles and flips open his belt buckle. "I'm not married."

"Me neither." And that's when Michael figures out that he needs to gain back the ground he's steadily losing.  She's playing him like a fiddle, and it's supposed to be the other way around.

She craves honestly, genuineness. How can he give that to her?

His hands roam up over her hips and he reaches for her brassiere. "She was my wife," he whispers, letting himself think of Elizabeth's face. Her eyes, her mouth. "I lost her...a little over a year ago now."

And it still aches like an knife in his gut.

Nikita's face softens. Compassion.

Interesting. Michael only has a second to wonder who it was she lost before her hands are splayed across his chest and she's pushing him onto his back, pinning his hands to the bed with her own.

He works at keeping his eyes open, at connecting. This needs to be more than a one night stand, it needs to _matter_ to her. (It already matters to him, more than he wants to admit.)

He lets her have her way for a little while, enjoying the sensations of her kissing his neck and wriggling her hips against his.

When he finally does flip her over, settling atop her easily, lavishing open-mouthed kisses onto her neck, he hears her gasp.  It's a spectacular sound; it means that she's finally giving in to him. 

She breathes his name, and he's lost in her, in the taste of her breath in his mouth and her touch on his skin.

There's this moment, somewhere in between all the franticness and impatience, mixed in with all the games and the lies. There's this moment when their eyes meet - while she's shuddering and falling apart in his hands - when he thinks he sees the real her, the _real_ Nikita. She's there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Michael kisses her gently, framing her face with his hands. Her hair tangles in his fingers and her tongue presses against his lips. She moans softly into his mouth.

And then they simultaneously return to a frantic pace, desperation and want combining into an explosive, combustive mixture.

In the aftermath, Michael is still able to hear the sound of Nikita breathing his name.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up in the morning, and she's still in his bed.

Naked.

Which should be more of a problem, but he's not there and she can hear the shower running.  Her phone is sitting on the nightstand and hasn't yet lit up like a Christmas tree, so the world probably hasn't ended.

She picks it up and finds a text from Tasarov.

**Long night?**

Quickly, she taps out a response: **I had a little fun. Sue me.**

Wrapping the sheet around her body, Nikita slips out of the bed and sets off in search of her dress.  She finds it draped over a sofa; her undergarments are nowhere to be seen.  Not that she really needs them to get back to her room, but they'd certainly be nice.

They _were_ lace, after all. 

"Looking for these?"

She spins.  Michael stands in the bathroom doorway with a towel slung low around his hips and a tiny piece of lacy black cloth dangling from his forefinger.  His smirk sends heat straight to her belly, and she clutches the bed sheet closer to her chest.

It's completely stupid, because it's not like he hasn't already seen all there is to see. She happens to remember him being particularly impressed by the phoenix tattoo on her hip.

He saunters closer, twirling the undergarment around his finger.

"You weren't leaving so soon, were you?"

Oh, she is not getting distracted by that husky voice. She's just not. She does possess some measure of self-control, after all.

But - oh, _hell_ \- last night was so _good_. It's not like a repeat performance would _hurt_ anyone.

There was something about him last night, something about the way he _touched_ her, like she was a puzzle he was trying to figure out, a problem he was trying to solve, a map he was trying to memorize. He was more concerned with her satisfaction than he was with his own.

Ari pretends to care, but all he honestly cares about is what he wants from her, and what he has to do to make her give it to him.

Michael looked at her like she was a person; Michael touched her like she was precious.

"Stay with me," he whispers against her skin. His lips brush her jaw line.

In her hand, her phone buzzes again; she turns it off.

 

* * *

 

"It seems you had a good night."

Michael glares at him; Birkhoff just snickers.

"Dude, there are security cameras in the elevators - and the hallways."

Michael smacks him upside the head.


	2. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must love you guys or something, because I was NOT planning on publishing this until after I got back from vacation. And then at some point I figured you've waited long enough. Enjoy!

Nikita leaves Michael with a number to one of her burner phones scribbled on his hand.

(She also leaves him with a kiss on the lips and an invitation to call her anytime.)

It's been two weeks and she still hasn't heard from him. It's beyond insane how often she checks her phone to see that it's working and that she hasn't missed his call. Especially since she should have thrown the burner cell out weeks ago.

She's on a rooftop, rain pelting against her favorite leather jacket, rifle in her hands, target in her sights, when a text finally comes from Michael. She thinks it must be Ari wanting confirmation of the hit, so she quickly pulls out her phone to check it.

**I'll be in NYC in two weeks.**

It's not exactly an invitation, but it's  _something_. Another text comes through a minute later with the name of a hotel, a date, and a time.

Nikita's target steps out onto the balcony, and she smiles as she pulls the trigger.

* * *

Michael glances up at Percy's right hand lady strolls into his office and sits on the edge of his desk. He should have suspected that she would come around to check on him eventually. "Has Nikita replied?"

"A few minutes ago," he says. "She agreed to meet me."

"Did you think she wouldn't?" Carla asks.

"I don't know what I thought."

"Do you  _want_  to see her again?"

This is the only thing Michael doesn't like about Carla. Her perceptiveness comes in handy when they're dealing with new recruits and their shady pasts. It's beyond annoying when he's the one she's placed underneath her microscope.

"That doesn't matter," Michael finally answers. "Percy wants me to see her again, so I'm going to see her again."

"Percy doesn't run everything around here," Carla says. "I wish he would have talked to me about this before he sent you in; I wouldn't have let him."

"I wanted to go."

"Because of Kasim."

She's not wrong, so Michael doesn't object.

Carla leans over and places her hands over his. "Michael, I know how much you want to take down Kasim. I want to take down Kasim, for betraying this place, for betraying us. But you don't have to do it this way. You don't have to let Percy push you around."

"I'm in this now, Carla. I'm not backing out."

"You know, if you get in too deep, this is going to end badly, Michael. Eventually, you're going to have to betray her."

Michael doesn't say anything. He knows. That knowledge has been festering in his gut since she kissed him goodbye.

She works for Gogol. She's not on his side. She would kill him in a heartbeat. All these are things he keeps reminding himself.

She is gorgeous. She is lovely. She is confident and vulnerable, perceptive and oblivious.

Michael would really like to see her again. To figure her out further. He wants to know what the Phoenix on her hip means; he wants to know why she joined Gogol. He wants to know  _her_ , all the intricacies and insecurities, and the hopes and fears, the likes and dislikes, her wants and her needs.

Yet, even as he knows that each new bit of information will help him to learn about her, he also knows that every thing he learns will be forged into a weapon to use against her. Michael's just not so sure that when the time comes, he'll be able to pull the trigger.

* * *

She wears a short green dress that she tells herself she picks because she hasn't worn it in ages, and not because Ari's never seen it in his life. Nikita's not sure when she got so good at lying to herself.

He smiles when he see her, and her stomach leaps at the sight as she slides onto the barstool next to him.

"Hi, Soldier Boy."

"I told you: I'm not a soldier."

"Well," Nikita purrs, "I think you'd be upset if I called you CIA boy."

"I'm not CIA."

She steals his scotch and takes a long sip. "You keep on telling yourself that, soldier."

"And how would you know if I was CIA?"

Using her index finger, she points at her chest. "Nikita Mears. Investigative journalist. I've been around the block a few times. You start to recognize the government types. Especially the ones who are good at evading your questions. You denying it?"

"Journalist doesn't sound boring to me."

She gives him a look, and he seems to quickly pick up on her confusion. "When we first met," he says, "I asked you what you did, and you said it was boring."

"I sit in a cubicle and tap at a keyboard," Nikita says. "It's pretty boring to me. And did you see how deftly you steered that conversation away from your job?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Nikita smirks.

"Let me buy you dinner," her says.

She smiles as she finishes the rest of his drink; she can't remember the last time anyone took her to dinner. It certainly wasn't Ari.

Michael takes her to a vegetarian restaurant. She asks how he knows, and he cites what she ordered for breakfast from room service. She can't believe he remembers.

Nikita doesn't date. She doesn't have any need for it, unless she's on an assignment, and then she has a secondary goal or objective. Here, there is no alternate strategy on her part, nothing for her to do but have a good time, to study Michael. She finds that she likes the idea of trying to figure out what makes him tick. She notes the wine he orders, the meal he chooses. She thinks for a little while about the meaning of the color of his tie, the thought behind his cufflinks. She studies his reaction to things the waiter says, his reactions to the things she says. Little things here, little things there.

They talk about her life (her cover life as a journalist really is  _boring_  - through a string of shell companies, Zetrov actually owns the paper, and Nikita's never penned a word in her life, but it gives the excuse to travel). They discuss the places she's been, the things she's seen.

Until Nikita finally says, "What is this, Michael?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have to do this, you know. I came here with the intention of sleeping with you. Normally when I meet a man at a hotel...he doesn't buy me dinner first."

It takes him a second to respond to that, but when he does, he graces her with a lopsided smile that makes her stomach flip. "Then you've been dating some real jerks," he says.

* * *

"What made you pick me that night?" Michael asks, later.

Nikita's eyes are closed. She shifts into a more comfortable position against his chest. "What do you mean?"

"You were the prettiest woman at that party; you could have had any one of those men in your bed. Why did you pick me?"

She presses a kiss against his sternum. "I should be asking you the same question. Why did you pick  _me_?"

"If I tell you it was because you were the prettiest girl in the room, will you think less of me?"

Nikita shrugs one shoulder. She's accustomed to being the prettiest in the room.

"No," Michael says, letting his fingers splay out against her stomach. "I don't think that was it. Or at least not all of it."

She's quiet, waiting, almost dreading whatever he says next.

"I chose you," he says, "Because you chose me. I saw you, of course. I definitely thought you were the prettiest in the room, but I didn't think I'd have a chance until you started talking to me."

Finding his hand with hers, Nikita winds their fingers together. She slides a leg over his hips and rolls onto his chest. Her hair falls around his face, and when she kisses him, it feels like a reward.

"Why did you pick me that night?" he asks. The words come out low and gravely. Nikita's pupils instantly dilate, and her thighs tighten slightly around his body. It takes her a few seconds to answer, but when she does, her voice is as thick with want as his was.

"You looked corruptible," Nikita says. "I wanted to be the one who got to corrupt you."

"Is it working?"

The kiss she gives him is positively  _filthy_ , and it ends with his lower lip between her teeth. Scraping her nails against his shoulder blades, she slowly runs her hands down his arms. He reaches for her, but Nikita grabs his wrists forcefully and pins his hands down, slowly rocking her hips against his.

He  _moans_ , and she smiles. "You tell me."

* * *

Nikita moans pleasantly. She's got her face buried in a pillow and her arms stretched over her head. Michael's hands are working against her shoulders, firmly massaging the tense muscles there. If he keeps this up, Nikita thinks she might melt right through the mattress. His hands touch just the right places, alternating between gloriously rough and achingly gentle.

"Sorry," Michael says, "You've got this knot right there. Must be stressful."

"What?"

"Your job."

"It has it's perks."

He falls over onto his back, settling down next to her. "And it's downsides, apparently."

The truth comes out unbidden. "Sometimes, I feel hollowed out. Empty. You do what I do for as long as I have, you eventually see a lot of things you wish you'd never seen." She curls against him, letting him tuck his arm around her waist as she uses his shoulder as a pillow.

"I know what you mean," he says. It's the first time Michael has even casually admitted to her that he's in the intelligence community, and the acknowledgement of something Nikita's long known to be true fills her with this inexplicable joy.

"I knew you were CIA," she says smugly.

For just a second, Michael looks nervous, but it's there and gone before Nikita can think too much about it. He rests a hand on her thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb, and suddenly her body is reacting to his touch in a completely different way. The moan that slips from her lips carries a different weight to it. He kisses her and tugs her close and right when she's just about forgotten what on earth they were even talking about, Michael replies, "I can neither confirm nor deny."

* * *

They meet again in Paris because she's there to eliminate a target for Ari and Michael...never really tells her why he's there.

He just  _is,_  and he uses his body to press her up against the wall in one of the shadiest nightclubs she's ever set foot in. They hide in the shadows of a tiny alcove as the music and lights pulse around them. The cut of her dress is low enough for him to place a line of kisses down her breastbone, and her skirt barely reaches her thighs. Michael's fingers slip beneath the material, and she lets her head fall back against the wall as her body shudders under his touch. It's not enough, not nearly enough, and she tells him so between breathless gasps.

Her hands grab at his shirt, searching for purchase, for something to hold onto as he hooks both hand behind her thighs and lifts her up. She tightens her legs around his hips. It's all she can do to hold on.

Everything about him is intoxicating and dizzying. He spins the earth beneath her feet. She's never had such a weakness before.

And, oh, he is a weakness. Nikita just can't quite bring herself to care. Not when his hands are pushing up her skirt and his mouth is hot on her skin and -

One of the bouncers inevitably stumbles across them and throws them out, but that's ends up working out fine because Ari rented Nikita a car with a very spacious backseat.

* * *

Jet lag is a bitch. It's past midnight in Moscow, but to Nikita, it feels like early evening. Silky sheets are tangled around her legs and one of Ari's arms wraps possessively around her waist.

Carefully, Nikita shimmies out of Ari's arms and into a silk robe. Padding to the window, she pulls back the curtain and stares out at the lights of the city around her.

Unbidden, her thoughts drift to Michael, of his hands on her skin and his voice in her ear. It's not the first time this has happened.

She wakes up in the morning and she thinks of him. She closes her eyes at night, and he's the last thought in her mind. She's in so deeply she's drowning, and the most terrifying part of that is how much she doesn't care that her feet can't touch the bottom anymore.

Ari's hands settle on her shoulders. She jumps, startled. She hadn't realized heard him get up.

"You're tense," he says, and she can hear the surprise in his voice. "What's keeping you awake?"

"Just a bit of jet lag," she says, biting her lip at the half-truth.

He sighs, letting his hands slip down her arms as he presses a kiss below the line of her jaw. He turns her face towards him. "Why do I feel like you're not being completely truthful with me."

Uneasily, she swallows. His fingers travel to her wrist and find her pulse. "Your heart's racing, Nikita."

She knows. It's been hammering in her chest since he appeared behind her.

Ari sighs, almost sadly. "You don't love me, do you, Nikita?" His tone is surprisingly patient.

"No," she says. "I don't."

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

She doesn't answer; she doesn't have to.

"Do you love him?"

Again, Nikita is silent.

Ari tucks a bit of her hair back behind her ear and then presses a kiss to her forehead. "Be careful, my dear. Emotions can be a nasty thing in our business."

* * *

Michael walks into a hotel suite in Vegas to find a trail of rose petals leading into the bathroom. Nikita's lying in the tub, covered in bubbles. The lights are dim and there are candles spread out across the room, filling it with a heavenly scent.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" The words slip from his lips so naturally.

"You've proven to be very seducible." Nikita holds out a hand and beckons to him with a finger. He leans over her and as he does she grasps his tie, tugging him down until she can kiss him.

"Michael," she whispers against his lips, "I might be in love with you."

A war breaks out inside him, one side desperately wanting to return the declaration of love, the other side knowing that this is nothing more than a charade. The words  _I might be in love with you too_  hover on his tongue, but he stomps them down.

He kisses her instead, because he  _does_  love her and he loves kissing her. Nikita kisses with the same passion she does everything else. It's so easy to get swept away.

"Clothes  _off_ ," she moans against his lips. "Now."

Michael hurries to oblige.

* * *

Carla sets a syringe on his desk, and Michael's stomach sinks like a stone.

"Percy's calling it the Poe virus," she says. "It's slow acting. Even without the antidote, she'll be fully functional for a good 36 hours before she starts to feel any symptoms, but without the antidote, she  _will_  die."

"What if Gogol can get her the antidote?"

"This virus was specifically created for Division use. There is no way for them to find an antidote, not in time. She either helps us or she dies."

"What does Percy want her to do?"

Carla hesitates, and that's what tells Michael that this is so much worse than he thought it was. "Percy wants her to kill Ari Tasarov."

"If she kills Ari, Gogol will kill her, and she knows that. She won't do it."

"Is that really what you think? Or do you not want to believe that she would kill him just to save her own skin?"

Michael ignores the question. "Why does Percy want Ari dead?"

"He has someone inside Gogol, someone who will be in a position to take over the organization after Ari is out of the way."

"Who?"

"He won't tell me." Carla says. "And that's what concerns me the most."

* * *

"So," Nikita says, swirling the last bit of wine around in her glass as watches him dress. "What happened to her?"

From his seat on the edge of the bed, Michael doesn't turn to look at her, which merely confirms her suspicions. "What happened to who?"

"Your wife," she says nonchalantly, setting her glass on the nightstand and crawling across the bed. From behind, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses a kiss against his jaw. "You've never said."

Michael weighs his options. Sometimes he feels like they're trading secrets. One of his for one of hers. That's the currency of their relationship: a lie for a lie, a truth for a truth.

He can't say the name Kasim Tariq, of course, but he can tell the rest of the story.

And he does. She stays at his back the entire time, keeping her arms around him and her hands pressed softly against his chest. He can feel her breath against his skin as she presses soft kisses to his shoulder.

In a small way, it helps him remember why he's doing what he's doing. It helps him reconcile why he has a syringe of deadly virus with him, and why he's planning on stabbing her with it.

She falls asleep in Michael's arms, her head nestled against his chest. So trusting when she really shouldn't be. He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve this.

Michael waits until Nikita's breathing has evened out before he slips out of her arms and grabs the sedative from its hiding spot beneath the bed.

He hesitates for a moment. She will  _never_  forgive him for this. He's not sure he can forgive himself.

She wakes up as Michael stabs her with the needle. Her eyes fly open and the shock and betrayal he sees there makes him sick to his stomach. She scrambles off of the bed and away from him, towards her clothes.

"Michael," she breathes, before her eyes take in the needle in his hand and the expression on his face.

"I liked," he says, taking the tone he uses on the recruits. "I'm not CIA."

One of her stilettos comes flying at his head. At least it's not a  _bullet_.

"You're  _Division_!" She spits the last word like it's a curse. Another shoe flies towards his head, this one is slightly easier to dodge now that he's on guard. He'll be honest - if she ever found out, he half expected a knife in his back.

"I just injected you with something called the Poe virus. You'll be dead in 48 hours unless I give you the antidote."

Nikita doesn't move. "Michael, don't do this."

And for a split second, he wants nothing more than to take it all back. But it's too late.

Michael keeps his voice calm. "I need you to kill Ari Tasarov."

"You need me to, or Percy does?"

"Percy does."

"I am not killing Ari. I'll die first."

For just a second, he believes her. She  _will_  die first.

Michael's job is to figure her out, and he knows how to get her to do what he wants.

"No you won't. You're not blind to the things that he does. He's not the good man you'd like to see him as, and deep down you know it. This gets him out of the way. It... _stops_  him from hurting people."

"People like your wife?"

It's like a bucket of cold water to his face, and suddenly Michael's wondering just how much he severely underestimated  _her_  ability to figure  _him_  out. The truth weighs in his chest. "Ari didn't have anything to do with Elizabeth's death, but he's actively protecting the man who did."

"Kasim Tariq."

He doesn't ask her how she puts the pieces together. It isn't like she would tell him anyway.

Nikita begins to pace, back and forth with such fury that she should be wearing a hole through the floor. "I don't know how I didn't  _see it_. Everything...everything's been a  _lie_."

"No." He stops her there, stepping in front of her and catching her shoulders with his hands. "No, it hasn't been. I  _promise_ you it hasn't been."

"And how am I supposed to believe that?"

He opens his mouth but the truth silences him. She has no reason to believe him.

"I should kill you right now," she says.

"You won't."

"You think you know me so well, Michael? You got me all figured out so you can use me however you want?"

"It may have started like that, Nikita, but it wasn't...it wasn't supposed to become real."

She shakes her head, "No...no. You don't get to tell me that it was real. None of this was real for you. You  _used me_." The last barb sinks in his chest in the way a blade in her hands never could.

"And you used me right back." It's not the same and he knows it.

Scoffing, Nikita shakes her head. "Tell Percy you made an  _excellent_  honeytrap."

* * *

_to be continued..._


End file.
